


another eternity

by demios



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: Drabble collection for FFXIVWrite 2020; rating/tags will be updated accordingly.— iii. MusterGranson asks the Warrior of Darkness for advice.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. crux & sway

**Author's Note:**

> i'm taking a shot at this again this year! as always, this will probably be updated sporadically but i hope you enjoy nonetheless!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i & ii. Crux & Sway
> 
> Thanatos, the sun, and the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Azem and an Amaurotine Original Character, Gen/Friendship; Patch 5.3 Spoilers. I make up a lot of lore here also.
> 
> Achilles belongs to Leo while Thanatos is my own oc! Technically Thanatos is my Azem, but I have become enamored with an AU where they are friends with Achilles as Azem instead. :)

The wailing had ceased.

The earth stopped moving, and the beasts stopped forming from the aether. The air had gone still and something was very, _very_ wrong.

The shift is immediately noticeable, prompting Thanatos to jerk up from where they are crouched on the ground. They were not gifted in the art of creation by any means, yet even they could tell the unnatural quiet was born from something that was not of this realm. Some primal instinct makes them shudder when they cast their gaze towards the night sky. _Clear as can be._ As if the rain of stars had been naught but a dream. For a horrible, mortal moment, they are overwhelmed with an intense sorrow coupled with the desire to flee. 

It is dark, so very dark. 

A mantra from their rudimentary education surfaces in their racing mind - _we citizens of Amaurot serve as proud stewards of this star_ \- except _this_ is not the star they knew and loved. It is a pale imitation, a shadow of its former self. The constellations hanging overhead offer little solace when the nothingness swallows the sky in nebulous, churning rebirth.

They push aside their growing discomfort in favor of redoubling their search through the rubble of Amaurot, their knees scraped and bruised from crawling under broken slabs of stone. Deconstructing the debris would be a simple task for them, were it not for the fact they were looking for a frail body beneath. Their voice went hoarse long ago; they only have luck to guide them now.

The remaining fires cast Amaurot in a strange and sickly glow. They refuse to rest until they find their quarry, even if they are naught but a cold body. They think themselves akin to a stray dog, searching for the hand that offered them scraps of kindness. It might be an apt comparison when they followed the infamous defector of the Convocation through the chaos and blood while the rest of the city prayed for salvation.

 _Was this truly salvation?_ They know not what to think. They are merely searching for the sun in this deluge of night. Azem would know what to do. Azem always knew what to do.

With the fires dying out, their task becomes increasingly arduous. Corpses littered the streets, all bearing the same masks and robes. They had never seen the people of Amaurot so starkly _mortal_ \- the act of giving up one’s life force was painted as a beautiful occasion, one worth celebrating when the person would pour themselves into a final, grandiose concept left for generations to come. It was the last sacrifice one could make for the betterment of their people. 

_This_ was death. Meaningless, uncaring death. They wonder if it sought to claim even the brightest soul in the city. But out of the corner of their eye, they spy a familiar form - warped and shaped by magicks, split and chipped and battered, but still recognizable from the dim color of their soul. 

_Azem._

Thanatos falls to their knees one last time, a sob of relief escaping them.

-

The dented creation matrix feels thick and clunky in Thanatos’ hands. 

The Final Days claimed near everything, and while they did everything in their power to away the army of beasts, they could only do so much. They lacked a mage’s prowess; their sole skill was unwinding the aether comprising another’s creation. They rarely brought their own concepts into existence, and what meager forms they pulled from the aether required the assistance of their matrix.

That is why they are fretfully careful when they clumsily weld Azem’s body back together. The other lies prone on a cot, the two of them hidden away in a corner of Amaurot where defectors and exiles would not be noticed.

Thanatos never anticipated mending another when they were only fit to dismantle them. Perhaps Asclepius did when he encouraged them with small lessons between his duties as an apothecary. Thanatos’ attempts were no better than a child’s, leaving an unsightly scar over a small cut on his hand. They wanted to be ashamed for marring the other in such a way - but Asclepius simply beamed with pride and thanked them. Thanatos’ chest aches. They had not seen him since the grim procession of bodies towards the Capitol. They swallow the lump in their throat.

Azem finally stirs, their chest rising and falling with breath.

“Azem-!” Thanatos gasps, quickly pulling away their hands lest they disfigure them more.

Azem smiles wanly as they swiftly undo the incantations of strength placed upon their strained body. Claws become hands, horns fade into aether, a carapace becomes soft flesh. Half of their face is obscured by their mask, but Thanatos is under the impression it does not reach their eyes. 

“You needn’t call me by my seat anymore.” They give a dry laugh that fades into a small cough. “I’ve lost the mantle, remember? Just Achilles will do.”

Thanatos cannot return the jest. They bury their face in their hands, their curtain of long silver hair hiding the way their shoulders tremble. Azem - no, _Achilles_ was alive. They were the one who led the crusade when the sky began to fall. Thanatos remembers them as bright and monstrous in the thick of battle, but still unable to contend with innumerable beasts born of uncontrolled creation. It wasn't long before they became separated in the crumbling glory of Amaurot, swarmed by monsters and the howling earth.

Thanatos had been afraid, then. They did not worry about creating beasts of their own, nor succumbing to the terrors unleashed in the streets. Since meeting Azem they found a fulfillment in their immortal life that Amaurot could not offer. The thought of losing their companion and the future they promised together struck a deeper fear in their heart than facing the end of the world.

Azem’s smile diminishes when they sit up. “Forgive me if I have caused you concern, my friend. And... thank you for saving me.”

Thanatos’ mask was lost to the fray, every unbecoming emotion now plain on their face. They scrub their reddened eyes with one tattered sleeve before nodding. They wait for Achilles to say anything more, but the other simply closes their eyes and falls back into the abyss of sleep.

-

They keep to the outskirts of Amaurot. No longer do they frequent the Akadaemia to pester the scholars or idle on the Macarenses Angle’s lush lawn, gazing up at the clouds. They could scarcely call Amaurot a home when the city was near-barren. 

Achilles touched the hearts of many on their myriad travels, and it wasn’t difficult to find a kind soul who would be willing to offer them shelter. They are surrounded by muted, earthen tones rather than the stony cage of towering spires. Thanatos thinks this always suited them better, anyways.

Hythlodaeus finds them with ease, no matter how far they’ve strayed. Thanatos joins the two of them at the table, finding the scene familiar even if the discussion was devoid of the lighthearted chatter they had grown to enjoy.

“So the Convocation went through with their plan,” Achilles says. They wear an unreadable expression, absently tracing over one of their fresh scars.

The other Amaurotine makes a hum of affirmation. “They requested I stay behind to guard the city, as Chief of the Bureau of the Architect.” Hythlodaeus replies. Their voice lacks its usual jovial undertone. “My days are devoted to rebuilding Amaurot, but I cannot help but wonder if this was the right choice. Even Emet-Selch could not be persuaded to seek other answers.” 

Achilles shakes their head. “I thought Hades might be inclined to listen, but…” They pause. “He is possessed of the Sight, is he not? And an eye keener than your own. And still, he…” 

Hythlodaeus’ gaze lowers. “Yes. I saw it for myself during the Final Days.” They sigh deeply, as if recalling a dream. “An endless cascade of souls returning to the Lifestream prematurely - I thought it would never stop.”

Thanatos’ stomach winds into a knot. They possessed a weaker variation of the Sight as well, but they did not dare peer too closely at the scattered souls above, lest they find something or someone they were not meant to. They kept their sights focused on the ground, where they would not have to fully acknowledge the scale of death and sacrifice swirling about them. Hythlodaeus’ small huff relieves a fraction of the tension gathered at their core.

“It is meaningless to dwell on it now. It was never something that could be debated in the Hall of Rhetoric, try as we may.” Hythlodaeus smiles thinly. “If the members of the Convocation have one flaw, it is that their opinions are entirely too insular. You were at a disadvantage from the start, Azem.”

Achilles snorts. “I’m well aware.”

“What do you mean to do now?” Hythlodaeus takes a sip of water from the cup in their hands. “The Convocation will not be swayed from their course. Even now, they intend to offer up another sacrifice to restore the world’s flora and fauna.”

“The beast that started it all has been silenced, not slain. Zodiark cannot be adequately sustained should it rise up once again. Not with the way He continues to demand offerings.” Achilles’ expression remains perfectly calm when they next speak. “I intend to find the source of our undoing and confront it personally. Then we will have no need for conjured deities.”

Thanatos’ head turns towards their companion’s, eyes wide. _Surely they didn’t mean to-?_

Hytholodaeus appears unsurprised, letting out a small chuckle. “I see. Safe travels, then, as always.”

-

They seldom saw Achilles without a mask. It is endlessly fascinating to watch their face contort in joy, childish displeasure, and surprise. They notice the other smiles less nowadays, frequently lost in thought. They can see the other’s weary soul, rife with cracks and tiredly pulsing with each passing moment. Well, it might not matter when they were steadily preparing to leap into the beast’s maw. Still, they remain bright like the sun.

They are far away from Amaurot, sequestered between the aged shelves of a library forgotten by scholars and stewards alike. Thanatos’ throat itches from the dust. The language imprinted in the yellowed parchment is foreign to them, leaving them no available distraction. Where Anamnesis Anyder housed records in various crystal matrices, the people of this humble settlement recorded their history in ink and paper. 

Thanatos finally gathers the courage to call out to Achilles from where they are hunched over a tome. Normally, they would be surrounded with a myriad of engendered creatures with each chapter devoured - they had a penchant for unintentionally creating them when their thoughts strayed, fed new ideas and concepts that blossomed in their palms. 

But it is dark in the room, save for a lantern to illuminate the pages. The only creature that offers Achilles company is a rather simple one: a jellyfish, with stubby tendrils flailing about as it buoys itself on a handful of wind-aspected aether. “Are you certain about this?” They suddenly blurt.

The sight of Achilles waning evokes a memory - they remember sifting through Asclepius’ research materials on balmy afternoons, surrounded by vines and the scent of herbs reduced to poultice. A page in a book they skimmed, an image of a lion devouring the sun, the beast viciously sinking its teeth into it.

Achilles watches them in turn, blinking. The light of the lantern catches the golden hue of their curious eyes. The jellyfish’s translucent umbrella bobs lazily in Achilles’ open palm.

“The Convocation will not be moved from their stance. Or, rather, they can not.” Achilles says instead, effortlessly reading the plea in Thanatos’ eyes. “ Do you know why it is difficult to sustain a being like Zodiark? His existence requires unwavering, absolute faith. If they expressed any doubt, then their work would be for naught. They have no choice but to believe in His salvation and acquiesce His every request.” 

“Then… should we join Venat and the others?” Whispers on the wind spoke of another faction that sought to relive the star of Zodiark’s influence. Achilles was unfazed by the proposition, however - they turned away a messenger who beseeched them for any contribution to the cause, despite their reputation for helping any and all in need. Thanatos found it baffling, but held their silence until now lest Achilles take umbrage to the insinuation.

Achilles shakes their head. “They may desire to restrain Zodiark, but that would do little to solve our woes. Whatever being they seek to summon in retaliation would require the same faith.” Their brow furrows. “I am tired of seeing our people offered up. They call it equivalent exchange, but to what end?”

Thanatos hesitates. They know, in the back of their mind, that without ever meeting Achilles by chance in the shadow of the Akadaemia Anyder, they would be one of the eager souls ready to offer themselves to birth Lord Zodiark. They would have thought themselves powerless and of little use aside from serving as fodder for fleeting salvation - at least, then, their pitiful existence would have had a purpose. But traveling with Azem gave them a new purpose and perspectives on their unusual talents, chasing away the doubts ingrained in them since their youth. Thanatos decided long ago to stay by their side to the last.

“There is always another way. I know there is.” Achilles closes their tome and sends the jellyfish back into shimmering, dissipating aether. “You know as well as I do, from our travels - if we do not determine the crux of the problem, the suffering will only continue. More will be sacrificed in the name of a temporary solution. I cannot allow that to happen without attempting to intervene.” 

Achilles’ soul shines brightly in that moment - passion and resolve swelling within their cracked core, a guiding beacon that the other cannot turn away from even if imperfect. 

They stand, facing Thanatos with their eyes of lurid gold softening fondly. “Thank you for indulging me thus far. I won’t blame you if you want to part ways here.”

The offer is said with a diplomat’s neutrality, with plenty of room to separate on favorable terms. A way out if Thanatos so chose to seize it. Somehow, it kindles the beginnings of defiance in their breast instead. “...Do you know if this will work?” Thanatos asks, tilting their head.

“No one has attempted this before. Who can say?” Achilles shrugs, expression tinged with a hint of sheepishness.

Thanatos lets a moment of silence linger between them, faintly taking note of the way Achilles becomes subtly unnerved as they delicately choose their words. 

Thanatos turns their attention towards the window and the sky flooded with a million stars before meeting Achilles’ gaze head on. “Then… shall we find out together? I’ve followed you to the end of the world - what’s a little further?” Thanatos says, hastily tucking one lock of hair behind their ear out of habit. It was unlike them to make such bold declarations, but they continue in spite of how uncouth they must sound to the former Fourteenth. “Regardless of what may come to pass, I am your friend. I want to help, if it’s within my power.”

Another beat of silence. 

Achilles lets out a long sigh that surprises Thanatos, slowly leaning back against one of the wooden shelves. They look so very tired, their soul returning to its softly glowing state. A crooked smile splits their face. “Would you think less of me if I said I was worried you would take me up on that offer?”

Thanatos shakes their head vigorously. _Never. I would never-_

“Thank you. I know I’ve said it a thousand times over, but… truly.” They take Thanatos’ hands in theirs, squeezing them briefly. The other is only vaguely aware of the polyphonic voice ringing about their skull when they can feel Achilles' soul squirming just beneath the skin. No less radiant than before. No less warm. “Get some rest, my friend. We’ll need our strength come the morrow.”


	2. muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> iii. Muster
> 
> Granson asks the Warrior of Darkness for advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Granson and ambiguous DRK WoL, Gen/Friendship; Tank Role Quest spoilers and vague DRK spoilers.

Granson lands on the ground a rather impressive distance away, his defeat marked with an  _ oof _ punched out of him upon impact. His sword is lost in a bed of Il Mheg’s vibrant flowers, scattering delicate petals in its wake. The sky is clear, pristine blue, uncaring of the way Granson has likely bruised his ribs. 

_ It was his own damned fault, anyway. _

The warrior casts a shadow over him when they eclipse the sun, a vicious glint lingering in their eye as they steady their own weapon in an offensive stance. The darkness shifts, swells, rears up in its black and fathomless glory, and says: _ Aren't you getting tired of beating the shite out of him? _

_ A little,  _ they answer, muscles taut and senses still keen from the rush of thick, murky darkness through their veins. Their heartbeat has yet to calm.

“Another round to you, sinner.” The hume wheezes with a smile, starting to pick himself up. The sound of his voice pulls them from the intoxicating power of the abyss. They sheathe their arm to offer him a hand.

They pull him to his feet, gaze flicking towards his armor and taking note of the scuffs in the metal. “You're not going to ask me to kick your arse again, are you?” They ask, raising a brow as he dusts himself off.

“I've had more than enough for today, possibly the next moon with how you fight like a beast. Shadows help the poor bastard that gets on your bad side, eh?” Granson laughs a little too loudly and a little too forced, but they suppose it's a natural consequence of having hardened his heart for so long.

The warrior leans over to pick up his sword, proffering it towards him once he regains his balance.

“Here. Why did you want me to spar with you, again?” And he asked that they hold nothing back. A fool’s request they indulged, thinking he would be able to hold a sputtering candle to their monstrous strength.

“When we fought together, against Dikaiosyne-” Granson takes the sword and straps it to his back, rolling his sore shoulders. “You used some kind of magic back then. I thought I would better understand it if I saw it for myself.”

The warrior blinks slowly. “You could have just asked me instead of…”

“Getting my arse handed to me thrice over?”

“Yes. That.” They reply flatly. “I think you’re like to get concussed before you retain anything.” 

Granson takes their bluntness in stride, nodding in agreement with a snort. “I’ll admit, I haven't figured out much about your technique save the way it overwhelms. I'm beginning to wonder if my help was even necessary against Dikaiosyne.” 

_ That's not true, _ they want to say. But Granson squawks out an undignified noise mid-step when he wobbles, kneeling to the ground. He lets out a groaning exhale through his teeth, his eyes screwed shut. The warrior feels a tug of guilt in their chest. 

They swiftly join him in the lush greenery, inspecting him for any visible injury. “Let me mend your wounds.” They say before he can brush off the pain. “You  _ cannot _ walk back to Pla Enni like this.”

The Nu Mou were a practical sort of people, far less whimsical than the pixies. The warrior doesn’t fancy explaining how Granson sustained such dire injuries, even if Sul Oul would find amusement in it. They had better things to tend to than a mortal’s recklessness.

“Alright, alright.” He holds up his hands in acquiesce, knowing it would be fruitless to argue when he can barely stand. Instead, he leans back in the dewy grass, shifting into a more comfortable position. He slides off his pack and weapon, then unfastens his armor before shrugging off his coat.

The warrior sucks in a small breath, grimacing at their handiwork.

Mottled bruises splash across his chest and arms in an unsightly hue. The warrior is careful to assess the damage between pale skin and old scars. They hadn't unleashed their full strength against him; that would mean cutting him down without hesitation. But the injuries are where they expect them to be, given the ruthless nature of a dark knight’s swings. They are intimately familiar with both ends of the sword from their own training.

Conjury gathers in their palm, the aether cool to the touch like the water from Longmirror Lake.

“I suppose I’ll ask before you knock my pride down another notch.” Granson tenses in anticipation when their hand hovers above the first bruise at his shoulder. “What sort of magic did you use back then?”

_ Careful,  _ the dark says.  _ You and I both know this was never meant for him. _

So they lie. “It’s magic from my homeland.” They shrug as they begin to soothe his hurts. “And not something that’s easily passed down.”

Fray and Sid needed it to survive. Granson doesn’t. When they first met, he was convinced it was the only way he could carry on, holding onto a festering, hollow heart - now, the sky above holds all the darkness he’ll ever need. They will not offer wretched communion despite how they always burn with the rites, just behind their teeth each time they bare them in a snarl. Granson is not a dark knight and they're not trying to forge him into one.

The hume lets out a small hiss of pain when the  _ cure _ spell graces his skin. “Still, think I could use a little more kick to my swings?” 

The warrior lets a beat of silence pass as they concentrate. The magicks in their palm glow softly when they sweep across his collar. “How gifted are you at manipulating aether, anyway?” 

“Not very, unfortunately.” He attempts to rub the back of his neck out of habit, then winces at the soreness.

_ Then why ask?  _ The dark snipes irritably. 

_ He’s too earnest, _ they think. Unlike them, he had no mentor to guide him when he had nothing but a dulled blade and nowhere to put the endless grief. He had no choice but to hold it close and burn himself away in the process. They feel obligated to give him at least a little advice. 

The deep purple hues from their blows have turned to yellowed and greenish patches, healing under their touch. Just enough to not be a burden when they made the trip back to Pla Enni, but enough to serve as a reminder of this harebrained foray. Granson shivers when their fingers skate over warm skin and lean muscle in a final inspection. 

“I may not be able to teach you the spells, but I can share with you a… trade secret, if you will.” They say, pulling their hands back once they’re satisfied. “Something to temper your resolve.”

Granson tends to be one of the better ones at keeping his composure, never fawning over them with bright-eyed admiration for the Warrior of Darkness. However, the suggestion makes him noticeably perk up, perhaps soothing his wounded pride more than any healing spell ever could. His eagerness is apparent when he sharply fixes on them with deep ruby, his earring swinging and catching stray sunlight from the way he snaps his head towards them.

The warrior only returns his interest with a small smile, nodding. They situate themselves on the grass, sitting across from him cross-legged. They remove their gloves and hold out their hands.

“What are we doing?” Granson asks. He accepts their unspoken invitation nonetheless, placing his palms in theirs. They are rough and calloused from a lifetime of labor, long before he started hunting sin eaters.

“Meditating.” They reply simply. Except the scene is drastically different from what they’re used to. They are far away from the snowy cold of Ishgard, from some still and obscure corner of the Brume, sinking into the clear voice of a too-familiar stranger. And here, among candied fields and open air, they are away from the dark of a shabby house, runes scrawled in chalk on the floor, a flickering candle in their periphery as they beckon to the abyss.

It is just them, with the rays of the afternoon sun forming a balmy halo atop their head, surrounded by the scent of grass and lakewater. “Tell me why you picked up a sword.” The warrior says, thumbing over Granson’s hands in a slow tempo.

The question seems to catch him off-guard, his gaze darting between random patches of grass behind them. The warrior wonders if he will draw his hands back and forgo the exercise. They know they are cruelly prodding around old wounds and barely-healed scars. They watch him close his eyes in a bid to collect the right words, focusing on the scar that splits his face.

He lets out a deep sigh, fixed on the sight of their hands entwined. 

“Like I said before - I used to be a hunter, before all this. Sometimes it was game, other times it was dealing with dangerous beasts. We didn't have much in Wright, but this is supposedly an heirloom, of sorts. Made by a renowned swordsmith before the Flood and kept in my family, even though the size makes it rather unwieldy.” He pauses. They can tell he is thinking of home in that moment, of a peaceful life before Dikaiosyne and what could have been. His thoughts always drift towards Milinda, but there was little more to say on the matter when she had been honored and laid to rest. There was naught to do but look to the morrow and remember her love.

The warrior continues to trace small circles into his skin with their thumbs, imagining runes along their paths and the blasphemous incantations that follow. The script never found its way to Granson’s tongue, let alone his blade. The abyss beneath their skin roils, but Granson fails to serve as a conduit for the lonely, hungry thing, lacking a soul crystal.  _ Good,  _ they think. They wait for him to continue.

He exhales a breathy chuckle. “As for why I didn't take up something lighter? Wanted to be a knight, I guess. You already know I'm not the romantic kind, but I liked the idea of protecting my loved ones with the thing after hearing stories about kingdoms before the Flood. So I held onto it, and learned to swing it around. And here we are.” 

Embarrassment touches his cheeks and the tips of his ears. The warrior politely pays it no mind. “Are you still holding onto it?” They ask instead.

“The knight thing?” Granson raises a brow. “I guess? I’m usually at the forefront of things, shielding everyone else if I can help it.” 

“Is there anything you want to protect now?”

“I don’t know.” He falters, his expression turning pensive and vulnerable. “You certainly don’t need protecting. Neither do most of my partners. I still work alone most of the time, too. But there are less experienced hunters part of the Clan who take to the field for their first mark, and I try to make sure they don’t end up on the wrong side of a beast’s maw. And then there’s that…  _ colorful  _ group of hunters I sometimes work with. It’s a wonder how they haven’t robbed me of my sanity yet, especially that unruly dwarven lass.”

The warrior privately snorts at the mention of Giott and the other hunters, imagining how they would grate fantastically on his nerves.

“If I had to name just one thing, though?” Granson says, glancing at the sky above. “It would have to be the night you’ve brought back. I know you fought tooth and nail to free Norvrandt from eternal light and I’m not about to let your efforts go to waste. Those I lost that day will never get to see the dark of night, so I want to protect it in their stead.”

That’s all the answer they need. The warrior makes a small noise of approval. “Close your eyes. Breathe in through your nose, then let the breath pass through your lips.”

Granson follows their instruction, the tension fading from his grip. 

The warrior speaks calmly, channeling the voice of a mentor born from shadow. “In your darkest hour, think of why you raise your blade. Not to avenge, but to  _ protect. _ Stoke the flame in the deepest part of your soul, and let the fire flow through your veins. Think of that something you want to keep safe when you think you’ve lost your way.” The silence that follows holds a deep stillness. The chirp of lorikeets in the distance, the gentle breeze across the fields, the sound of water lapping at the shore - they are vaguely aware of these as their words hang in the air.

They smile, finally letting go of the other's hands. “Or something along those lines.” Because they are by no means qualified to be teaching novice knights.

Granson slowly opens his eyes. They wonder if he truly got anything from their lecture without the abyss as his companion. But the sunless sea above might serve as an adequate substitute, a reminder of his resolve with each turn of the sun. He regards them warmly, shedding some of his usual professionalism. “Thank you, sinner. I'll keep it with me.” 

They offer a nod in response, hoping their words would hold true for him even after they returned to the Source. “Can you walk?” The warrior asks, rising to their feet. 

Granson does the same, this time without immediately falling on his arse. “Aye. I think I’ll be fine.” He cocks his head towards the general direction of Pla Enni. “Come on, let’s go before Sul Oul thinks we got eaten by monsters.”


End file.
